<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Hidden Memories by Bordeaux_at_dusk</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24791218">Hidden Memories</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bordeaux_at_dusk/pseuds/Bordeaux_at_dusk'>Bordeaux_at_dusk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dark, Dark Academia, M/M, Modern AU, Whimsical, hey look a new writing style, philosophical, romantic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:22:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,109</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24791218</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bordeaux_at_dusk/pseuds/Bordeaux_at_dusk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>ON TEMPORARY HIATUS WHILE I FINISH "MYSTIQUE"<br/>It was a chill autumn day-- not the kind that danced, leaves swaying in the wind with the grace of ballet, but the kind that was blustery and cold and gray-- the kind that seemed to hold secrets, the kind that always seemed to be whispering something on the wind but never quite knew what to say.<br/>A modern day AU. Well, a pre-2020 modern day AU. Back in the good ol' days of coffee shops and crowded theaters.<br/>Dark and whimsical, romantic and tragic. Philosophical, as always. Heavy themes, as always.<br/>Updates about once a week or every few days.<br/>Independent of the other fics in the Peculiar Moments series, but with the same elements and head-canons.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Falling Leaves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello everyone! Welcome!<br/>I'm back with a new fic and a revamped writing style.<br/>Given current events, the old one became a little outdated....<br/>Let me know what you think!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a chill autumn day-- not the kind that danced, leaves swaying in the wind with the grace of ballet, but the kind that was blustery and cold and gray-- the kind that seemed to hold secrets, the kind that always seemed to be whispering something on the wind but never quite knew what to say. </p><p>Gavin pulled the scarf tighter around his face. It was soft cashmere, something he normally couldn't afford nor approve of. He hated impractical, luxurious things, but his mother had pushed the scarf on him a few weeks before she’d passed away, insisting that it would stay warm even in the dreariest weather, and so it did. Funny that such a useful thing would also be so plain-- gray and nondescript, the scarf did it’s job well without elegance-- and his mother must have known this. She knew he hated drawing attention to himself. </p><p>Gavin was a nobody. He had been for a long time-- his mother’s death had erased any hint of kindness in him, any tolerance for other people, the old romantic boy swept away under the force of grief. He’d become like his dad-- hard, abrasive, aggressive, and toxic. </p><p>It was less like a downfall and more like a death. He was killing himself, he knew it-- not quickly, but slowly and excruciatingly over time. The alcohol destroyed his liver and the smoking destroyed his lungs and the attitude destroyed his social life, and soon there would be nothing left. </p><p>He was a shell of a man. </p><p>What a relief it was, to be a shell. To be a nobody. </p><p>Gavin had watched as the cancer ate away at his mother, bit by bit, piece by piece, replacing her warm smile and fond laugh and the way her red hair blew in the wind with hospital beds and plastic-tray lunches and bald skin so pale and fragile it looked like paper. There had been nothing pretty about it, nothing <em> brave, </em> nothing <em> warriorlike. </em> So many people used to praise his mother-- <em> you’re so strong, you’re such a fighter-- </em>as if only Gavin remembered that she hated anything violent, that she was not some kind of suffering martyr but a warm, loving soul-- as if everyone had forgotten who she was in favor of how she was dying-- and it made her sad, he remembered. She used to smile without any joy, but the second she was alone, she’d laugh about it with him. </p><p>One time, instead, her eyes had gone distant. </p><p><em> I hate when people say that, </em>she’d said. </p><p>Gavin had asked why. </p><p><em> Because, </em> his mother had sighed, <em> if they call it a fight, that implies I’m not fighting hard enough to win.  </em></p><p>And that was the sad truth of it after all-- if there was anything his mother could do to stay with him, she would have done it. But there wasn’t. </p><p>It hadn’t been a fight.</p><p>It’d been a murder. </p><p>Gavin breathed in the smell of the scarf. If he tried hard enough, he could convince himself that there was a hint of her summery, orange-peel perfume still on it. </p><p>There wasn’t. </p><p>Still. It was nice to imagine. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Jem and Brickwork</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Welcome, everyone, to yet another story! <br/>This has a lot of the same elements as the other fics in Peculiar Moments, but it's a new style and a new kind of story. <br/>(I'm desperately trying to convince myself it isn't a coffee shop AU, but it looks like the odds aren't in my favor on that one.)<br/>Thanks for sticking with me, everyone who held on through the hiatus and subsequent struggles with Mystique!</p><p>Thank so much to BecausePlot and flamox for the kudos!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Gavin  turned left and crossed the street, crunching through the leaves that gathered in the gutter, red and yellow and withered brown, more delicate than eggshells. His mother. He normally tried to ignore the memories of her, to shove them (like he’d done to the photo albums) into some dusty corner, never cleaned and always forgotten. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They resisted, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The memories of his father came back with stink and rot-- garbage festering and decay, hitting him so hard he was often blindsided. The memories of his mother were lighter, gentler. They didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>impact</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- they drifted softly instead, settling into his mind so gradually he didn’t realize they were back until it was too late. He’d wake up from some daze to realize she was there, her voice speaking to him through time, her presence heavy in the room. Then he’d shake her off-- whether she was memory or a ghost, he didn’t know or care-- and continue his relentless self-destruction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She crept back, time and time again, like an obsession. Like the time he’d tried to quit cigarettes. Like the homeless drug addict on the corner by Gavin’s apartment, abandoned by the world, watching people pass by and pretend she didn’t exist, craving an escape from the society that had forgotten her. She went by Jem Stone, a name that was so blatantly fake it was funny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin gave her what food he could when he passed by, and in return she would tell him about the people she’d seen on the street-- a group of young teenagers causing trouble, a mother scolding her child until her face went red, some big-shot executive in a suit with a hired girl on his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Funny thing, being invisible, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jem had said to him one day. </span>
  <em>
    <span>People think it’s so impossible. But it’s easy. You slip through the cracks of the world and boom! You’re gone. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin had been homeless, once. Invisible. After he ran away from his dad, packing an over bloated suitcase at some awkward hour in the morning, and hopped on a Greyhound Bus to Detroit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two years on the streets until he’d turned eighteen and picked up a job in an auto shop-- now, many long years after that, he still worked there. Came home smelling like oil and grease and gasoline. Not a bad job. Better than nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin had just finished crossing the street when another burst of wind picked up, chilling him to the bone. He huffed to himself and thought for a minute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No point in going home-- he’d come out to think. Gavin hated being trapped with his memories. The confined walls closed in and became overwhelming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a storefront to his left, one of those progessive indie brickwork affairs, warm light spilling through the windows and the scent of ground coffee coming through. Outside his budget, but a warm place to stay for a minute until he could venture back out into that strange autumn afternoon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin slipped inside, pulling the scarf up automatically as though to hide his face, hunching his shoulders. He felt out of place, although he probably didn’t look it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had never liked to be seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A silver bell tied to the door rang as he pushed it open, emerging into a welcoming space that was surprisingly uncrowded for the time of day-- more red brick and cream-colored walls, stocked shelves up the ceiling, wide wooden tables and huddled-away booths. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a nice place, all right. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>